This story is quite pointless. It’s also the female equivalent of those stories written by pervy old men whose dashing protagonists bangs every well-endowed lady in the land, but with the female twist (actually, the need) of the males longing for the woman many years or decades later. But as I said; it’s just pointless. Not bad, just without a point or purpose. I do not know why it exists. I do not know why 1,887 words were arranged to form this short story. I can see this existing as a joke, a post in somebody’s blog, a somewhat comedic snapshot, but I can’t see why this is a Hugo nominee, potentially the best fantasy or sci-fi short story of the year. In fact, there’s hardly anything fantastical in this story aside from the half-satyr’s titanic schlong and Rose’s irresistible sex appeal (and legendary endurance.)
Have you ever stood in front of a cinema complex, slack-jawed as you read the titles of the latest movies and the dreams and fantasies they promise, and thought to yourself, “I’d rather sniff nails than pay to watch any of these?” You are not alone. Have you ever wondered why old-time film critics, although sometimes pedantic, seemed knowledgeable and scholarly while the current critics, young YouTubers, and assorted criticasters seem kinda brain-damaged? It’s not a delusion, and you are really on to something.